


Xander's Usual Seat

by TheMarkOfEyghon



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: (mutual?) pining, M/M, One Shot, Xander has a crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21973444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarkOfEyghon/pseuds/TheMarkOfEyghon
Summary: Being late meant that he had to settle for the solidified lasagna for lunch because the pizza: piping hot, golden-brown crust, and bubbling cheese, is gone. It also means that he is surprised to find his usual seat is taken by Oz.
Relationships: Xander Harris/Daniel "Oz" Osbourne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Xander's Usual Seat

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot for a concept I suggested to my girlfriend with no context. Just testing the waters out.

Oz is sitting with them at lunch today. 

Xander is the last one to arrive in the cafeteria because he was pulled aside by Ms. Martinez to talk about his abysmal score on the pop quiz they had yesterday in Spanish. She wants him to try harder, can’t understand why he does so badly on the written when he’s one of the only people in the class who can respond to her questions without any English thrown in. And he can’t explain that spelling in English is hard enough for him without all the accents and other markings thrown in. That words dance around on the page. So he just hums, shrugs, and avoids her gaze until she lets him leave with a sigh. 

Being late meant that he had to settle for the solidified lasagna for lunch because the pizza: piping hot, golden-brown crust, and bubbling cheese, is gone. It also means that he is surprised to find his usual seat is taken by Oz. 

He stops dead in his tracks and stares at Buffy and Willow. 

“Uh. Hey.” 

“Xander!” Willow says, half-jumping up to her feet with an expression that’s equal parts pleading and guilty. “Hi! There you are. You know Oz, right?” 

No. 

Not really. 

Xander knows OF Oz. Everyone does. Oz is a senior and he’s scored massive popularity without the aid of rich parents because he’s in a band. The Dingoes are not exactly on the road to win America’s Got Talent, but they are legends at Sunnydale High for scoring multiple gigs at the Bronze. Oz is distinguishable by his bright red hair (which is sometimes black, sometimes blue, and was once even purple) and green eyes. He turns to glance back at Xander when Willow says his name and nods at him. A cool guy nod, the kind of thing that works effortlessly for him but would look dumb and forced if Xander tried it. 

“Uh, yeah,” Xander says, really showing off his sparkling conversation skills. “Hey.” 

Oz is in his usual chair. Xander is forced to take the unusual chair next to him and Buffy resumes lamenting about the homework assignment she forgot to do for English, while carefully avoiding the subject of slaying, for the benefit of Oz. Who is not a Scooby, but is sitting in Xander’s usual chair and threatening his position as the only boy in the group, and not to mention? He has a slice of untouched pizza on his plate. 

And Xander does not like him. 

Is this what being benched for a new, better player feels like? Xander suddenly feels for all the guys that were forced to the sidelines by Airbud, that dog who could play basketball, because the lump in his throat is threatening to joke him and he only moodily pushes around his soggy, oversalted medley of vegetables around on his styrofoam disposable tray. He didn’t see this coming. Why didn’t he see this coming? Of course, something like this would happen.

Oz is cool. Indisputably so. He meets all the qualifications for it. He plays bass guitar, fingers calloused and rough from a year and a half of practice. He has groupies and accolades and the right to sit wherever he wants during lunch, even if it’s in Xander’s chair. Xander, who has never touched an instrument in his life outside of sixth-grade band. One year spent blowing into a trumpet and he never looked back. Maybe his lungs don’t inflate properly or something, because just looking back on the experience makes him winded. And, anyway, the trumpet is a lame instrument. He would not have groupies, even if he had persisted. Oz is the kind of guy who can sit in Xander’s usual spot one day and then over at Cordelia’s table the next with no one batting an eye. 

And he’s the silent type. Laconic, Willow would call it, with that I-have-a-crush smile on her face. But it’s not like hanging with Angel, who only offers small tidbits of information so that they have to needle everything out of him (which Xander thinks is how he cements his importance in the group). It’s like he’s just listening, and only contributes what he thinks is necessary commentary. And Xander hates it because Xander is a talker. He talks all the time because silence makes him contemplative and introspective, and when he starts to look at himself under a microscope is when things get wiggy. And nothing in his babble, not a single joke he cracks, is half as funny or as poignant as Oz’s comments about ice and animal crackers of all things. Is it ironic detachment or is it just natural to him? Xander wonders and resents it. How does someone in high-school have that much chill? How can he so effortlessly suave? 

Oz starts to drum his fingers against the table and Xander watches without really watching. His nails are bright and shiny blue, chipped on the pinkie. Xander glances at his own nails and wonders what it’d be like to see colour there. Probably like he was trying too hard. No one would ever accuse Oz, though. Oz is the kind of guy who’s allowed to hate sports, allowed to smudge on just enough eyeliner to make his eyes pop, allowed to listen to music that isn’t mainstream without words like “wimp” or “loser” being thrown around. His masculinity is never threatened and Xander is so jealous that he can’t see straight. So jealous that he can’t stop looking over at him, wishing he was more like him.

Oz pops the tab of his soda and takes a gulp. Xander watches his mouth purse against the can. Watches his adam’s apple jump as he takes gulps of the drink inside. Watches him set it back down and then viciously stabs the lasagna on his tray. The plastic fork doesn’t stand a chance against this block of solidified grease and cheese. One of the tines breaks off. 

“Okay, I’ll calling it. This is inedible.” Xander says, pushing his tray away. His stomach is full of too much jealousy to eat, anyway. Bubbling and churning. 

“Oh, do you want some of my sandwich?” Willow offers, reaching to pick up her bagged lunch, but Oz is already pushing his tray over to Xander. Untouched pizza sitting there in all its glory. 

Xander glances quizzically at Oz, who shrugs. 

“I had a big breakfast.” He says, quietly. “Do you like pizza?” 

“Uh-huh.”

Ladies and gentlemen, intelligence strikes again. Xander clears his throat and tries again. 

“You sure?” 

Man, he’s as nonverbal as Oz but without the coolness and more of the embarrassing. Damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. But Oz just nods and Buffy picks the conversation back up and Xander is left to lift the pizza off of the tray and take a bite. It’s tasty, if lukewarm. And edible, unlike the block of lasagna that must have been cut with a chainsaw. 

Xander leans back in his chair and eyes the soda machine. But Oz is already there, again, pushing over his half-drunk coke. He doesn’t say it out loud, this time, when Xander looks at him. Just nods. And Xander makes sure to swallow all traces of pizza before he picks the can up and takes a sip. 

He can taste Oz’s chapstick on it. Minty. And it makes his stomach flutter in a way that coke has never done before. And he thinks that Oz might be looking at him through the corner of his eye. 

Or maybe he’s just hoping. 

But there’s no way. Because Oz is cool. And there’s no way that he has thoughts like Xander does. Little, forbidden ones about other boys. Xander pushes the can of soda back over to Oz, the lingering taste of residual mint sweetness on his tongue and tries not to think about what it’d be like to steal that flavour directly from his mouth. 

Instead, he thinks about tomorrow. When he’ll be on time for lunch, have a hot slice of pizza, sit in his usual chair, and fall back into the rhythm of the scoobies. Oz will probably sit with his friends, as usual, and everything will go back to normal. 

Right? 


End file.
